


Sorting It Out

by kribban



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-26 03:44:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20923628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kribban/pseuds/kribban
Summary: For the comment_fic prompt: Kirk/McCoy, helping Chekov through a rough spot.





	Sorting It Out

**Author's Note:**

> Chekov's problem is taken from the Star Trek Continues episode "Embracing the Winds" but the story takes place in the AOS.

Jim tried not to worry too much about the crew. That was Spock's job. And Bones'. 

His best-friend-and-more did a spectacular job of it, too, and doctor-patient-confidentiality dictated that he wouldn't report on an individual crewmember's health unless it interfered with his or her duties. And then he would report it to Spock, who handled all personel matters. 

Still, his function of being Jim's _and-more_ meant he sometimes gave hints. Non-verbally, perhaps, but Jim could read them anyway.

“Ensign Chekov came to see you today, huh?” 

The young officer had been replaced by Lieutenant Riley for forty-five minutes during today's Alpha shift; just long enough for a Doctor's visit. 

Bones' arm tightened around Jim's waist and his knees pressed a little harder against the back of Jim's. Aggressive spooning, Jim had called it at the Academy. 

“Goodnight Jim,” Bones said hoarsely.

Jim decided to ask Spock.

“The Ensign is able to perform his duties admirably,” Spock replied evenly. “I will inform you if and when that is no longer the case.” 

God, talking to Spock was like trying to squeeze water out of a rock sometimes. But Jim was getting better at it.

“Yeah, but Spock, you must have noticed something. Right?”

There was a miniscule change in Spock's facial expression. Not quite a nod. “I have noticed that which I already suspected; that the absence of strong mental discipline leaves the human mind ill-equipped to pursue multiple goals concurrently. I believe a singular focus is preferable. For a human,” he added and moved his rook with an almost amused glint in his eyes. “Check, Captain.” 

“We're having dinner,” Jim mumbled against Bones' chest. They were both sweaty and the air temperature was a little too high for comfort. “On Saturday. In my state room. With Chekov.” 

“Uh-huh,” Bones replied, too fucked-out to formulate a sentence, but Jim could tell that he thought it was a great idea. 

Chekov was... nervous. He was also water-combed, which made him look ridiculous, and his uniform had been pressed. Pressed!? He saluted Jim and pressed a silk-wrapped jar full of candy into his hands. It looked like some kind of fudge. 

“I thought I told you to wear civvies,” Jim said chidingly and watched Chekov's eyes widen. “It's okay, you don't have to change.”

“I'm sorry Keptin, I didn't know what to wear. Your own attire is very... very suiting you, Sir.” 

Jim was wearing his comfortable jeans and a well-worn Academy hoodie that had bleach stains from fun times in the lab. Very, _very_ fun times. “Yeah, I guess you can say that.”

Bones appeared to press a glass into Chekov's hand. “Don't torment the poor kid, Jim. You're supposed to be a good host tonight, remember?” He slapped Chekov on the back. “Come on in, kid, dinner's ready.”

Dinner was, if not Southern _cooking_, at least a careful selection of replicated Southern dishes. Chekov took to them like a fish to water; better than even Jim did, and he was from the same continent, for Christ's sake. After the rich and hearty meal, as well as some more of Bones' good bourbon, the young Ensign was relaxed and high-spirited.

Jim went in for the kill.

“You've got a lot on your plate, Ensign.” Chekov's eyebrows went up in confusion and he looked down at his – very empty – dinner plate. 

Jim laughed. “Sorry, that's an American colloquialism. What I meant is that you're working in a lot of different fields right now. Command. Engineering. Science. You can't be getting much sleep.”

“I find a lot of things very interesting,” Chekov admitted. “I want to learn as much as I can, and I am young. I don't need much rest.”

“I appreciate that, I do, but surely you have a plan for where you want your career to go? I hate to break it to you, but there is no Starship where you can be a navigator, an engineer and a science officer at the same time.”

“Yeah, a jack of all trades is a master of none,” Bones added. “Look at me, I'm only good for being a surgeon. But at least I know it. You seem to have the opposite problem; you're good at a lot of things, but you've gotta pick one and stick with it.”

Chekov frowned. “I suppose you are right, Keptin. Doktor.” He looked down on his hands, one of which was still wrapped around the glass. 

“You've gotta have a dream.” Jim said gently. “If you could get the position of your choice, on any Starship... what would it be?”

“Well, to be honest, I... I'm sorry, Sir, it sounds ridiculous.”

“It won't leave this room.” Jim glanced over at Bones who shrugged. “Besides, I've gotta know what you want so I can plan for the future.”

“Well, I've... What I would really want...” A full body shiver went through Chekov like he was embarrassed to even put his dream into words. “I would like to be a security officer, Sir.”

Wow.

Jim wouldn't have been able to guess that if he'd had a million guesses. All right, maybe after the hundredth or so.

“That's not... such a far-fetched idea, Ensign.” He looked at Bones and silently begged his best friend to back him up. 

“Not really, no,” Bones said matter-of-factly. “You're tougher than you look, kid.” 

“You'll need additional training,” Jim continued. “Are you really okay with spending another year, or two, at the Academy after our five years are up?”

Chekov nodded excitedly, looking much less tense than he'd done a minute ago. “Yes, Sir, absolutely, Sir.”

And Jim's heart melted. 

“All right, then, here's what we're going to do. You're going to tell Mr. Scott that you can't assist him anymore. You're also going to hand over all of your stellar cartography assignments to Lieutenant Reyes.”

Chekov opened his mouth to protest but Jim stopped him with a pointed stare. “I'm going to ask Mr. Spock to assign you to Mr. Giotto for ten hours a week, which I expect will not interfer with your navigational duties. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir. I will not let you down.” Chekov replied brightly. 

“And when you're not on duty, you're going to rest,” Bones added gruffly. “No additional projects. No non-essential studying. Eight hours of sleep per night. Remember what we talked about?”

Some of Chekov's brightness seemed to diminish under the glare of his doctor. Hopefully, he'd do as Bones said this time. 

“Yes, Doktor, thank you. And thank you, Keptin.” 

This dinner had been a great idea. Satisfied with himself, Jim leaned back in his chair. “Well, Bones, I'd say that's time for dessert.”


End file.
